


Inspiration

by Beathen



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beathen/pseuds/Beathen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on livejournal on June 17th, 2006. I own nothing - it all belongs to Showtime and Cowlip.  
> *My everlasting love to besame_bj for beta-ing!

He is every artist's dream. Such long lines, long fingers, long legs, long... well, I'll leave that one unsaid. The muscles in his arms and legs are not bulky like a body-builder, but they are defined enough that I can see them even when he's relaxed. I often have to resist the urge to lick the hollow in the base of his neck, his lower back, the crease where his ass meets his legs, the valley created between the muscles in his pecs, or, as crazy as it sounds, the arch of his feet. There's just something about those places on his body, and others as well, where the shading of light on his skin is like a beacon to me. I know that if I were to reach out and taste him right now it would be salty and musky from our activities the night before. Sometimes when I'm drawing or just looking at him I succeed, but oftentimes not. I don't think he minds, though.

He may not be the perfect subject, often unruly and annoying as hell, but he's my continuing inspiration. I started drawing him the day I met him and I haven't stopped since. Even now as I sit on the opposite side of the bed, my pad resting on my bare knees, and I'm sketching him - sprawled nude and motionless across the rumpled sheets, with his face turned towards me - I can't get enough. The light filtering in from the window is muted and it makes him look so soft and irresistible to touch. I try to capture the nuances in his face before he returns to consciousness and the problems of waking life cloud his features. The little smirk on his face belies his mind still working while his body sleeps and I wonder if he's dreaming about me; I smile as he lets out a tiny moan. Of course he is. He would adamantly deny ever making such a noise and I'll let him believe he's still a stud in his relaxed state, but my drawings show the truth. 

I sometimes like to look back at all the drawings I've done of him over the years. How my technique has developed and matured, but to also see how he's matured. Yes, there may be a few more lines on his face now, but he's still as beautiful as the day we met. More so, I think, because now I know who he really is under his carefully crafted asshole persona. My pencil flies over the page filling the bedroom with the soft scratches of graphite transferring onto white paper. If only he could see how I see him. He thinks so little of himself and his worth because of what others expect of him and how he grew up. That's bullshit. I know his worth and it is beyond what anyone can believe, especially to himself. But I know the reality of things and I hope one day he can see it too.

Although I would never let on that I knew, I found the picture I'd drawn of him that was exhibited at the GLC art show. I was never told who bought it even if my brain was secretly hoping it was him, but I didn't know for sure. I was in the loft one day looking for... now I can't remember... but the point is, I was opening drawers and cabinets all over searching for... something... when I opened a drawer in his closet and there was the framed drawing right on top of a pile of perfectly folded clothes. I froze on the spot. And then I melted. Did he buy it to have a picture of himself, which is kind of conceited, or did he buy it because I drew it? I never mentioned it to him - he would have brushed off the conversation as if it didn't matter or gotten rid of it. If I were honest with myself I would figure that he just wanted it because he was the subject in the picture, but I let myself believe a different story. I told myself that this was the proof, that I wasn't searching for and wasn't expecting, that I meant something to him way back then. People say ignorance is bliss and in this instance, I agreed. For the rest of that day I don't think anything could have wiped the smile off my face.

Another low moan from the bed pulls me out of my reverie and back to the drawing I'm currently trying to finish, willing my hand to hold out long enough, and for him to stay asleep for just the tiniest bit longer. I guess my luck took a vacation as I hear his voice.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I flash my thousand-watt smile his way. There's no anger or criticism in his voice, just a dose of curiosity delivered in a Kinney-esque way.

"Drawing," I reply. He rolls over so he can prop himself against the headboard and looks at me sitting on the other side of the bed.

"If you do one more drawing of my ass or cock, you'll have one for each fag in the city."

I snort at this. I've probably got one for each fag in the _state_ , but it's never good to inflate his ego too much this early in the morn... oh, wait. Afternoon. Instead, I play into his tiny ego trip just a little. "That'll be a happy day for fags, then."

He smiles in that sleepy, lopsided way that I know will lead to a good round of fucking in, oh, about three minutes. I close my sketchpad, dropping it gently to the floor with an almost silent thud, and crawl up the bed until I'm lying right on top of him. His arms come around me, the palms of his hands caressing my lower back and fingers barely touching the crack of my ass. I love afternoons like this. I lean in for a gentle kiss, swiping my tongue across his lips as a teaser, but pulling back quickly. His lips are so pliable and sweet when he first wakes up. When I'm this close to him, our bodies in contact with as much skin as possible, it won't be long until he's rolled me over and is pounding me into the mattress. 

But I pull back for a moment to look into his hazel eyes that never look the same; the shade and texture always changing by the second. I wonder if I could paint that? As my back comes into the contact with the bed and his mouth descends firmly onto mine, I know that I can. He is my inspiration and I have years to get it right.

~~The End~~


End file.
